


I was in the middle before I knew I had begun

by NorthernRose



Series: I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, I've watched a lot of Bridgerton and this is what happens..., Jon Snow and Sansa Stark Are Not Related, Jon Snow and the Starks Are Not Related, Pride and Prejudice References, Regency Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension, lets have some fun with these sexually surpressed Georgians..., or is it...dum dum dum
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:14:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29957346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernRose/pseuds/NorthernRose
Summary: Title is taken from Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice.The opening of the London season, as always, is the Arryn Ball, where tonight the Lady Sansa Stark with make the acquaintance of perhaps the rudest gentleman in the ton.A regency romance - of sorts.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2203296
Comments: 71
Kudos: 190





	1. An Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> *Cue's Adele* Hello... its me!  
> Turns out, I'm not dead. I haven't posted anything in months, well, nearly a year. I have a small excuse, in the new year I had a baby! Yes, yes, felicitations.  
> It has been the biggest marvel of my life, and as the newborn bubble floats around my general existence, I have managed to find a little time again (often with the prettiest babe attached to my boob) to jot down some notes/ideas. 
> 
> I know I have a bucket load of WIPS still there, and thank you for some of the lovely comments of people checking in with me, your darlings, but who knows if I can commit to anything too big right now, so this will be a series of related one shots (approx. 12-ish) I have started writing which I have now cobbled together into a hash of a story which should be easy for me to pick up as and when I can whilst I enjoy these glorious 12 months of maternity leave before entering the real world again. 
> 
> Oh, it also turns out that watching Bridgerton will re-open my Regency obsessed memories from my teenage years, (yes, I know Bridgerton is trash, do I care? Not a jot). 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this, much love, from baby and me.

Sansa Stark’s second London season started as many a young lady’s did, with the Arryn Ball. Sansa was at a disadvantage, despite her complete lack of enthusiasm and want at attending, a refusal of invitation would be a slight to her aunt Lysa, who insisted on hosting the first ball of the season.

The Lady Sansa Stark, daughter of the late Earl Eddard Stark and his beloved Lady Catelyn, although only in her second season, was rather disenfranchised with the ton. She delayed her coming out at sixteen due to the untimely death of her parents. Her dear brother, Robb, the new Earl and Lord of Winterfell instead encouraged her to make her debut at seventeen. It had been a renowned success when the Yorkshire rose had made her first outing into polite and noble society. Sansa had been a darling of the haute ton, with many an invitation and bouquet sent for her to their house in Grosvenor Square. She had no less than five requests from gentleman to pay court to her, yet her brother refused them all. He had even refused the suit of Joffrey Baratheon.

Sansa fancied the young Duke to be one of the finest gentlemen in her new acquaintance, yet Robb was insistent she was too young for anything too serious and had cautioned her that he wanted her to enjoy her first season without flinging her into the marriage market.

Despite being somewhat miffed at the time, Sansa was now eternally grateful to her brother. The once Duke of Storm’s End had now been scandalously declared illegitimate and disinherited from his seat. She had gladly dodged that bullet. No duchess’s coronet could be worth that stain on her reputation.

The whole affair had left a rather sour taste in her mouth, and with her brother still unmarried and her younger sister making her debut this season, well, she was rather busy acting as lady to her rag-tag family to be interested in whatever rake would no doubt be sniffing at her skirts this year, or no doubt counting her dowry before it has been banked.

She didn’t mind the coming of her second season, a second season was quite fine, a third however… well, that would be something entirely different.

“How long do we have to stay?” her sister grumbled under her breath from beside her where they stood near the refreshment table basking in the general splendour of her aunts main hall, which she insisted was a ballroom even if it really wasn’t.

If Sansa was not enthused by the festivities being hosted by their aunt, then Arya was downright despondent about the whole affair. She had none of the excitement that Sansa had once had about her first season, and if she had her way, would have stayed at their estate in Yorkshire with her horse and a rifle shoved over her shoulder and ignored the whole thing.

“Till Robb wants to leave, sister,” she replied softly, a gentle smile still gracing her face no matter her mood.

“Speaking of, some chaperone he is.”

“Quietly, Arya. Let us not draw anyone’s eye to our brothers lack of attention,” she whispered as she glanced across the room to where Robb was in the middle of the opening minuet with the Tyrell heiress, “and besides, at a private ball, all ladies and gentlemen are considered introduced, so the chaperoning is a little more lacking, and Theon is here anyway.”

The Viscount Greyjoy is perhaps not as lacking in his duties as unofficial chaperone as their brother, but he has never possessed the appropriate level of dedication for such a role. He isn’t their brother, not truly, but in Sansa’s heart he is very dear to her.

Theon stands a few paces from them, leisurely popping a grape into his mouth every few moments in the most exaggerated and uncouth manner. He looks, quite literally, like a peacock, in his coat of green and blue silk, the utter dandy, and he offers a lazy _hmmm_ at hearing his name, before slinking over and bowing loftily.

“My sweetest blooms, how pretty you both look, ripe for the plucking,” he hums.

Before Sansa can whack him on the arm with her fan Arya offers an unladylike but no less deserved kick to the shin.

“Don’t be such a rake, Theon,” Sansa mutters behind her fan with a flourish. It’s the prettiest thing, in duck egg blue that her Great Uncle Brynden sent her for her birthday from his travels on the continent, she matched the ribbon about her waist with it this evening and it goes rather nicely with her white gown and embroidered gloves.

“You humble me, sweet hummingbird. Now, prey tell, has any gentleman caught your eye this evening?” he says with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, less of that, who cares?” Arya huffs, and her hair looks a tad flat, and her skirts are wrinkled already but in all honestly, Sansa is rather proud that she hasn’t killed anyone yet, she hasn’t danced with anyone either, but Sansa knows a win when she sees one, “now is he here yet Theon?” Arya continues.

“Who?” Sansa snaps her head towards her sister, because if her sister is looking for a _he_ , then she had better know about it.

“The new heir to Storm’s End of course,” Arya is carrying on in a rather animated fashion and Sansa cannot comprehend why. Of course, the Duke’s story is an interesting one. She heard the rather cruel and elderly Mrs Dustin call him the _second duke_ where she gossiped with another matron in the receiving line. True, it may be, but it is not something you expect to hear in polite company. Gendry Baratheon, the eldest son of the Duke of Storm’s End, Roberts second marriage has recently been named his heir and called back from the King’s Army after Joffrey was declared illegitimate and disgraced. Robb and Theon had been full of the tale on their return from their club the night they arrived in town. Its not the kind of gossip that would normally rivet her younger sister.

“What is it to you, sister?” she asks.

“He is rather proficient with a sabre, or so I’ve heard. Oh Theon, will you introduce me,” she begins bouncing on the balls of her feet, “please, please, I’ll do anything you ask, I’ll do your mending…”

“Which would be fine, if I wanted my shirts ruined beyond repair,” he whispers.

“Please, you know they won’t let me in any fencing clubs, so I can never talk to anyone about it!”

Its sweet really, her sister is not often as energetic or passionate about much, more so treating life with a lazy indifference, and as Theon looks to Sansa with a frown of confusion across his dear little brow, Sansa offers a smile and a subtle tip of the head to offer her permission to the introduction.

“Fine,” he huffs, “let’s find him then.”

“Where shall we begin our quest?” Sansa starts searching in her immediate line of sight, although she has little idea of who she is looking for, when Arya’s initial joy turns to cold reproach.

“Absolutely not, you will stay here. He will never talk to me about anything of actual importance with you fluttering about nearby, you are far too pretty.

“What am I supposed to do?” Sansa stutters in her outrage.

“Don’t worry, hummingbird, I’ll give Robb the nod on our way past,” Theon offers casually as if she isn’t about to be deserted and left unchaperoned in her aunts’ main hall.

“Oh wonderful,” she hisses, “I’ll be ruined before the supper bell is rung,” but before Sansa has even finished her hushed tirade Arya has dragged Theon away as they both cackle gleefully as if it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever hatched together.

Sansa huffs and flutters her fan to busy her hands, knowing she should find some boring and completely non-scandalous occupation to ensure her prospects are not ruined forever whilst she waits for her brother’s dalliance with Miss Tyrell to come to an end.

She slowly slinks away from her position in front of the spring water display, which honestly, is a triumph and she must remember to add her remarks in tomorrow’s card to her aunt when she congratulates her on this odious evening. It never does well to dwell in one place too long. She spots Miss Royce batting her lashes a couple of unsuspecting officers across the hall on the other side of the dancers and sets her in her sights.

So much so in her determination is she, that as she makes her initial move towards her dear Randa, she crashes into something with a startled yelp.

Not a something, a _someone_.

A someone who now happens to be wearing much of the lemonade he was previously holding.

“Oh, sir,” she begins, utterly aghast, “I’m so clumsy, please forgive me,” she has steadied herself with a hand on his chest which he has glanced down at with a raised eyebrow. She snatches a hand away as if she had held it to the hearth and rifles down her arm of her glove to pilfer out a lace handkerchief, “I’m so sorry, here, take this, I insist.”

He huffs a rather tired sounding laugh, before glancing down at the offered piece of lace as it were aflame with a scowl on his face.

“Keep it,” he speaks deeply and quietly, “save it for the next gentleman you intend to soak.”

Sansa is momentarily caught of guard by his cheek, no, his outright rudeness. She has no doubts if her brother had witnessed her being treated thus by a complete stranger, he would call the fool out.

He is a gentleman, his presence in her aunts’ home is proof enough, but its is the way he holds himself and his manner of dress, which is quite formal, almost oppressive in its ferocity that makes his behaviour all the more shocking.

She takes a small step back, and with an exaggerated flick of the wrist, one that Theon would be proud of, and slots her lacey offering back into her sleeve. She raises her head slowly, so her ire cannot be mistaken and regards him with the cool indifference she has become known for amongst her peers.

If he removed his thick scowl, she imagines he would be rather lovely to look upon. In all actuality, he is still the most handsome of gentleman, with his dark hair and sharp jaw, his broadness that seems almost sturdy in nature. Sturdy? Goodness, she really must spend more time conversing with the opposite sex if the solidity of this unnamed rogue has become a virtue.

“As I said…” she continues, hoping to instil some manners into the gentleman in front of her, “I must offer my apologies, if you shall not accept my handkerchief, at least accept my words, sir…” she trails off.

The decent thing here would be for him to inject his name and offer an introduction, but it is little surprise that he doesn’t intent to do the decent thing at all.

“If you required an introduction miss, other ladies have been known to be more subtle than to throw the contents of my drink on me,” he drawls quietly.

The shock on her face must read because he smugly raises an eyebrow at her.

“You are quite mistaken if you think I would require an introduction from you,” she says rather bluntly, because if he is going to be so disgraceful to her, she won’t go down without a fight.

“Oh really, dropping a handkerchief in front of me would have been less obvious, or perhaps, asking the time?”

She is seconds from turning tail and simply walking away from him, this so-called gentleman, who obviously thinks far too highly of himself. Every word from his lips is dripping in irony and he truly deserves a telling off. If Rickon had spoken to her in such a way she would clatter him about the ear.

Before she can be truly rude and offer an insult so outrageous it would likely turn heads, Robb’s form appears across the way from behind the most awful gentleman she has ever had the misfortune of conversing with.

Her brother is wearing a frown also, no doubt because he has come across her talking to a man, and how he hates her talking to any gentleman. Currently, she rather shares his sentiments.

“There you are, Sans,” he says loudly, his voice deeper than usual. He is using his ‘Lordship’ voice and she could kiss him for trying to scare the cad in front of her away. The cad in question turns and responds before she even has the opportunity to open her little mouth.

“Stark?”

“Targaryen?” Robb shouts, “Good god man, is that really you?”

What happens next is much guffawing and back slapping and a few words quite shocking for company, and its all so manly and tedious that she has little time to be affronted that her darling brother knows this hellion.

“I never thought I’d see you in town during the season,” Robb finally manages to speak after their gentlemanly greeting has come to a natural close.

“I wouldn’t be if I could help it, family matters, you know,” he says rather vaguely whilst Sansa stands there still utterly ignored. She would cross her arms petulantly if she hadn’t grown out of the habit at the age of ten.

She slips her hand into the crux of Robb’s elbow in hopes he remembers she exists. She smiles up at her brother sweetly, too sweetly, in a way in which she knows conveys her annoyance.

“Oh, of course,” Robb stutters, “Targaryen, let me introduce the Lady Sansa Stark…”

Finally, the man looks rightfully humbled, and his eyes flit between the siblings before settling on Sansa, his eyes dashing from her hair to her face and back to her hair again. His gaze lingers, longer than deemed polite and there is something about it that makes her want to fidget if she wasn’t still so angry.

Robb clears his throat rather obviously before continuing with his hashed introduction.

“ _sister_ ,” he emphasises, “This is his Grace, the Duke of Dragonstone.”

She offers a curtsey, not deeps enough to be considered reverential but he doesn’t deserve it. Of course, he is a duke, a Targaryen one at that, only a boy with blood so blue could be comfortable treating a lady thusly, although calling him a boy doesn’t really do him justice, but it makes her feel a trifle better.

“We went to Eton and then Cambridge together,” Robb says awkwardly as they continue to ignore one another, her through annoyance and the duke through sheer pig headedness she no doubts.

Though he still doesn’t speak to her, he stares so deeply, with a wry expression on his face that is as dark as his countenance, he is almost looking at her hotly, as honestly, she has just about had enough of this walking contradiction who seems quite happy, almost eager to look upon her persons but doesn’t have a polite word for her.

“Did his grace not attend the same lessons as you when it came to his education as a gentleman?” she offers dryly, looking at the engravings on her fan to feign indifference.

Robb barks a laugh, because if he knows anything, its that his sister’s ire is only ever deserved.

“What on earth did you do, Targaryen?”

“Trust me Robb, you don’t want to know,” she says on his behalf, “forgive me, but as charming as this has been, I must leave you, I believe our aunt has need of me,” she turns to the duke and offers him a cold stare, “your grace,” before turning and leaving too quickly to acknowledge his deep, brutish response of _my lady_.

“Your sister?” he hears the duke ask her brother before she is out of range.

She chances a glance over her shoulder, where she finds him still staring, though this time his dark gaze tracks down her skirts and back up again in the most scandalous manner and she can feel her cheeks traitorously staining with her blush.

“Yes,” her brother replies, “and don’t get any ideas…”

Quite so, she thinks to herself, for a man so prideful she wouldn’t dream of having any ideas about at all.


	2. Callers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stark House is opened for callers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you in abundance for the lovely well wishes and comments. You humble me to no end. 
> 
> I should probably clear up, that although this work has been inspired by Bridgerton, it is more of an ode to all things 'regency', and not a direct AU of that programme. It will have its own plot, although I know the initial meeting was similar, this will in no way feature any dub-con or any of the themes that have been voiced as problematic from Bridgerton. All in all, this version of Jon thinks the pull out method is a stupid as the rest of us (practice safe sex honey's!)
> 
> I hope that clears it up, anyway... enjoy.

With Parliament so recently being called back into session, Robb is not often at Stark House most mornings. Today, however, he tells them that the House of Lords is not in session, so they are blessed with his presence. It’s a happy thing too, following the Arryn Ball last night, when the knocker is placed on the door mid-morning, Sansa is in no doubts that the callers will come.

She doesn’t say this to be boastful, not in the least, but it is a rather unhappy fact. The Stark family possess two things which are always a great interest of the ton. The first being Arya, a second daughter of course, but making her debut all the same. There is nothing a gentleman likes more than the game of trying to pluck a new bloom, little do they know Arya would rather wilt than be plucked. The second, of course is Sansa herself, the eldest daughter of an Earl of a great estate in Yorkshire, and a renowned beauty to boot, not to mention her less than humble dowry which has been set aside for her marriage.

All this will of course lead to much fanfare and fluttering around them. Last year, Sansa would sit prettily in her mothers old drawing room and make small talk with any which gentleman that came to call, but with her newly indifferent outlook on polite society, she cannot help but come to the knowledge that it is as tedious as it is ludicrous to waste ones time pandering to men that she has no interest in whatsoever. Nevertheless, it is the done thing, and Sansa would never shame her brother so, despite her icy veneer, she will likely fluff many an ego before the morning is out.

The day is rather dreary, as it usually is in early spring, yet a happy display of spring bulbs has been arranged on the painted table in the window. Sansa will have to remember to thank the housekeeper for it. They have taken residence in the drawing room, or the Sunday room as her mother once called it. Sansa had it redecorated for this year, in pretty apple blossom and pale greens, so that even on the dampest of days it seems cheery.

Theon will be arriving soon no doubt, for although he has taken rooms in town, he frequents Stark House enough to be considered a permanent resident, but she imagines when you entertain as many ladies privately as her roguish Theon, it doesn’t do to cavort such dalliances in front of them.

Cook has happily prepared some mille-feuille, which Sansa has arranged just so to the side of the room with some light liquid refreshment. Robb noisily ruffles a newspaper and spares the odd hum to Arya’s babbling. She had managed to wrangle Arya into a pretty, cream frock with mint undertones, it really is darling with her colouring.

“Good morning, fair maidens,” Theon startles all and sundry with his hearty address as he marches into the room, before brandishing a daffodil he no doubt pilfered from a window box in Sansa’s general direction, she accepts it of course, before swatting him across the cheek with it. He merrily dodges her efforts before plonking himself down rather unceremoniously on the settee next to Robb.

It will be only moments before he spots the pastries and starts attacking them no doubt, so she had better do her best to distract them.

“You look rather chipper, all things considered…”

She is right too, Theon, as he often is, was a tad sozzled on their departure from Arryn House in the small hours, but Theon still has youth on his side, whereas Robb’s quietness is proof enough that he may be feeling a little worse for wear, as she knows he imbibed in a brandy or two in his study on their return.

“Hmm,” he agrees, “I dragged myself from my slumber, I couldn’t miss this no doubt entertaining morning,” Theon sits back lazily on the settee where Robb offers him a grumble and an elbow in the rib without looking up from his newspaper.

“Shut up, Greyjoy,” Robb mumbles.

“How rude, your Lordship. Surely you are as interested as I, to see what sorry fools intend to wash themselves up in your drawing room this morning. Shall we place our early bets?”

Theon is a dab hand at irritating Robb. It is rather an art form. Arya looks far too happy from her corner, and her grin spells nothing but trouble.

“Well, no doubt Sansa will have a good round number of idiots calling on her today. How many did you dance with? Five, was it?”

Arya is right. Sansa is wise enough to know how the morning will go, and she did dance with many a gentleman last evening, even the ones she didn’t want to, it wouldn’t do to refuse anyone. She can almost predict the order in which they will arrive.

“Baelish will no doubt be sniffing around as always,” Robb grumbles, finally lowering his paper aggressively.

Sansa supresses a shiver at the mention of her mother’s former acquaintance. Robb had politely declined his suit to formally court her last year, on account of his age, grasping nature and the fact that Robb could not stand the air he breathed, yet the man is persistent.

“You spent rather a time talking to Tyrell last night, didn’t you hummingbird?” Theon asks.

“Willas?” she nods, “He isn’t a bad sort, he is…”

“A bore,” Robb interjects.

“No he isn’t,” she huffs, “he is…”

“A bloody bore Sansa, unless you want to spend the rest of your days talking about his horses I wouldn’t bother,” he finishes.

“Fine,” she agrees, “he is a tad boorish.”

Often, when she is talking to any gentleman, she feels herself grasping for their good qualities, when really all she ends up doing is trying to decipher who isn’t the worst of the bunch, which really tells her everything she needs to know about the gentlemen in her acquaintance.

Their bickering is called to a halt by Cassel’s arrival in the doorway. There cannot possibly be a caller yet, she gave strict instructions to the butler on when the house would be open to visitors.

“Forgive the interruption, my lord, my lady,” the aging butler turns in her direction, “but some flowers have arrived for you,” he stands aside to allow the footman entry, who deposits onto the table next to her a pretty display of flowers, in soft yellows, the colour of primroses and pale lemons.

It is most out of the ordinary, for such a display to arrive before visitors are welcome. It is borderline presumptive and Cassell continues as to her unanswered question.

“it is most odd, my lady. There was no caller, they were found on the front step. Most odd indeed,” she smiles at his tone, she can hear the disapproval in his fatherly address which she is so fond of, “there is, however, a note address to you, my lady,” he nods.

“Thank you, Cassell,” she answers before he takes his leave.

She chances a glance about the room as she plucks the note from amongst the blooms, Theon is grinning wryly, Arya is ignoring them all completely and looks utterly bored and Robb is looking at the flowers like they have wounded him gravely before he looks at her, in an odd sort of way, as if he knows something she doesn’t.

She takes the note over to the window, to better read it privately and turns it over.

_Lady Sansa,_

_I would have sent lemonade, but these will likely cause less of a mess._

_Your new acquaintance,_

_JT_

The card bears the crest of Dragonstone and appears to be in the Duke’s own hand. Her initial response is to laugh, because if she had thrown lemonade on anyone else last night, she would congratulate them on sending her an arrangement of pretty, yellow flowers in the same shade of colour as the beverage she knocked into him, but then she remembers she cannot stand him, so he will hear no compliments from her. She shan’t likely forget how rude he was to her, and how he had the gall to accuse her of orchestrating the whole thing just so she could be introduced to his greatness.

Not only that, but he also didn’t show her the respect of presenting her with the flowers himself. Nor has he apologised for his outrageous behaviour last evening. All in all, she isn’t sure Jon Targaryen, duke or not, knows a thing about how to converse with a lady.

Heavens. She cannot bear him.

“You ought to tell your _dear friend_ the duke that I have absolutely no interest in receiving flowers, cards, not so much as a greeting from him!” Sansa seethed in her brother’s general direction.

Now, everyone in the family knows despite her cool indifference, that when Sansa is really riled up, she can at times be as fiery as her hair, but her outburst is most unusual, proven only by Robb’s knowing raise of his eyebrows and the fact he has folded his paper and placed it in his lap, offering her his full attention, yet she only carries on, “he is without a doubt, the rudest person I have ever had the misfortune of knowing… you should have heard how he spoke to me last night,” she continues to no one in particular, walking around the room.

Robb and Theon watch on from their position with wry amusement, as if she is a startled hare, their heads moving side to side as she paces.

“It isn’t like you to let someone irk you so much, sister,” Robb states unhelpfully.

“Yes, well, I usually like your friends!”

He hums in acknowledgement and Theon looks proud as punch beside him.

“Well,” Robb begins with a flap of his newspaper as he stretches it out in front of him again and mutters irritatingly, “you’ve obviously done something to him, in all my years of knowing Jon Targaryen, I’ve never known him to fawn over a woman.”

“That’s just the thing,” she swings back to him, brandishing his note like it could cause harm, “this is not fawning, this is sarcasm of the highest order.”

Thankfully for her poor siblings, Cassell enters again as the hour has drawn later.

“His Grace, the Duke of Storm’s End, calling for the Lady Arya,” he announces.

As if the morning cannot be any more absurd, she whips her head to her little sister, who has jumped from her seat and is now fidgeting with her hands, and if that doesn’t tell her everything she needs to know, the rosy hue to Arya’s cheeks certainly will.

Robb and Theon look as perplexed as each other, the little fools, as the duke walks into the drawing room and offers his mumbled greetings. He seems a shy fellow, but so with a hum of politeness and deference that her mother would have eaten up immediately. By all accounts he and Arya only conversed for a quarter hour last night, according to Theon, or in actuality Arya Spoke over and at the duke about horses and fencing whilst he bobbed his head at her.

As Arya stands their rather dumb struck, it is left to Sansa to once again keep the ship of propriety afloat.

“Arya, why don’t you take a turn about the room with his Grace, the portrait of the Armada may interest him, he is a military man after all.”

The Baratheon boy has the grace not to correct her that he isn’t a naval man and walks like a scared buck over to her sister as they begin to meander together, without nary a word spoken between them. Sansa longs to rub her temples and she would if she were alone.

Theon and Robb look rather put out, but then older brothers often do find it difficult watching their sisters grow up, and it seems that little Arya Underfoot has the duke in quite the twist.

Before Sansa can take stock of this newest development, the very first morning after Arya’s very first ball, Cassell stonily enters the room once more.

“The Viscount Dayne, Mister Petyr Baelish and Mister Willem Bracken, to see the Lady Sansa,” he begins, and she can almost catch his eyeroll and she heartily shares the sentiments.

So it is, a tedious morning spent fanning the egos of her callers, yet her mind cannot be drawn away from the pretty, primrose and pale-yellow display of spring blooms on her painted table, and the card that she quickly tucked up her glove, where it heats her skin just so, as furious as they make her from _someone_ who didn’t call at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy to take ideas/prompts in the comments. (I know trendy people do this on tumblr, but I'm a mum now, so I repel modern technology!!
> 
> Kisses 
> 
> Rose x


End file.
